


You Are Enough

by Kieran (Ameenjouee)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Child Abandonment, Foster Care, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Character Death, Self-Worth Issues, for rp, kind of a character study but kind of not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 08:11:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14666945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ameenjouee/pseuds/Kieran
Summary: Bobata had been through hell since his mother gave him up. He's just glad he's finally - hopefully - found a steady home.





	You Are Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is actually for a rp thing. I have my own rp group now! This is something I wrote for Bobata's past (hi, I play him there by the way!!)
> 
> If you're interested in joining the group, please check out the group's tumblr!
> 
> Enjoy!

The day had started normally enough - both of his parents were up moving long before he was woken for daycare, his mom humming cheerfully as she pulled clothes out to lay out for him to change into (too stuffy, again, it was almost like she forgot he was still a toddler sometimes) and his father giving him a warm smile as he handed breakfast over that morning. 

Mother leaving for work roughly ten minutes before his father and him left for him to be dropped at daycare. 

Nothing had seemed amiss, everything had been fine.

So his mom showing up to get him - not his dad, where was his dad, his dad  _ always _ picked him up from daycare - at the end of the day was the first real sign that anything was wrong. 

_ Daddy’s working overtime today, baby. _ That was the answer he got when he asked.

That was… okay. He could have dinner with just his mom, play for a while, and go to bed. His dad would be home by morning. He always was when he worked over time. 

 

But he wasn’t. 

He wasn’t home when Bobata woke up the next morning. 

In fact, he only woke up because there was an officer at the door and he heard what sounded like a yell. 

He was still rubbing at his eyes tiredly as he waddled his way into the living room to assess the situation - two police officers, both with sympathetic looks to them, and his mom in tears.

_ Mommy doesn’t cry, though.  _

He didn’t have to ask to understand. 

His dad wasn’t coming home. That much was clear. 

Mostly because of the bloodied shirt clutched in his mom’s hands - it was the same one his dad had worn to work yesterday, he knew it. 

But that didn’t keep the question of  _ where’s daddy _ from slipping out without his permission. 

 

The funeral was small - that suited Bobata just fine, he didn’t like hearing people cry, it gave him a headache.

His mom didn’t cry again, and he didn’t either. He wasn’t sure why, but he had the dull feeling that it was because he still didn’t quite believe it. 

That was fine, too, though. He didn’t have to believe it. That’s what his mom said, anyway. 

* * *

A week later, his world changed again. Which, he probably should have expected, honestly.

His mom had been distant lately anyway. 

Why on earth would she keep someone she didn’t want anymore?

Besides, Bobata thought, it probably hurts just to see him. 

That was fine. 

He got to keep a picture of his parents, and his bear, so he was okay. 

The first night after, though, he didn’t sleep. 

_ Did I do something wrong? _

_ Was I not good enough? _

_ She didn’t want me no more. _

* * *

His first home after being given to the system, he was six when he went in - two years after being abandoned.

He had a big brother there - a very protective, very funny big brother who held him when he dreamt of a light eyed woman that he couldn’t remember, but knew he had a picture of. 

He liked his new home - it was cozy, and warm, and his older brother chased his darkness away when it got too scary with tales of magic and dragons and hope. 

At least, for a while. 

A year into staying there - just after his seventh birthday, his brother grabbed him up and locked them both in his own room, looking weary and terrified. 

“Wh… what’s goin on?”

The wild, terrified light in the elder’s eyes at that scared him. People didn’t look like that without reason. 

A whimper escaped him even before he got an answer. 

Which, to be fair, he never did get. He fell asleep long before an answer was even thought of. 

The next morning, it was just the two of them. 

It took two more days before Bobata was allowed to leave the room, and only then in the arms of an agent for the foster system. 

He didn’t want to be separated from his brother, but he couldn’t fight either. 

There was blood everywhere in the lower part of the house, and his brother said something about his dad being the reason for it when he was taken from him by the agent while the officers were talking. 

 

He didn’t say much for the next two weeks - he spent that time mourning the loss of a home, even though he didn’t mourn the loss of the parents. 

He missed his brother, but not them. He hadn’t been close with them, what was there to mourn?

* * *

Two years later - nine - found him in another home.

He immediately disliked this one. He wasn’t the only foster kid, which was fine, it meant he wasn’t alone. But… something felt wrong to him. 

He couldn’t place it. 

He was the oldest one there - two others, a girl at the age of six and a boy at four. And so, he sort of picked up his previous foster brother’s habit of looking after them, protecting them. 

Which, he didn’t think was a mistake, but it certainly didn’t end well for him. 

The other two had been there for a year now, and they were terrified any time they were alone with the mother - understandable, she looked strict the first time Bobata had ever laid eyes on her, and was too touchy and liked to yell and hit. 

_ Why hasn’t anyone taken us away yet? They have to see this when they check in.. _

He got used to long nights of telling the younger two stories and faking smiles and laughter to keep them from worrying, tending to injuries the three of them gained, playing therapist for the two when they cried. 

He still hated hearing people cry. But the headaches had long since been replaced with sharp pains through his own heart. 

People weren’t supposed to cry because of their parents or guardians, he knew that. 

And so, crying had become a in-pain only thing, something tied to trauma. 

It meant something bad had happened and he couldn’t fix it. 

He was supposed to protect them, but he was too weak to even protect himself. 

It was there where he learned not to speak - his, no  _ their _ mother was harsh, but she was gentler with them when they didn’t speak. If he didn’t talk, he wouldn’t get hurt as much. He could protect the other two better. 

He was twelve when that home finally ended and he found himself holding the little ones to him the entire ride back to the orphanage. 

They were okay, a bit bruised up, and he was glad for it, even as he had to be tended to to staunch bleeding once they were back. 

* * *

The two of them went to a good home next, he knew. He got the letter the same day he was leaving for his next one - they’d been gone for six months and were happy and healthy and cared for. That was all he could ever ask for in life.

This one was softer. He didn’t feel scared. The home felt warm, and the lady who had taken him in was sweet. 

Sickly, but sweet. 

He knew this one wouldn’t last long - she got sick far too often, but it felt nice to be able to give her some joy in the end of her life. 

_ No one should die alone. That’s all there is to it.  _

It lasted longer than he feared it would, though. She passed away - peacefully, asleep in a hospital bed with him beside her - when he was fifteen. Two and a half years of calm and peaceful happiness. 

It wasn’t enough to heal what had been done to him - the scars he still had made sure he’d never forget - but it was enough to return some hope to him. 

* * *

When he met his fourth family, that hope flickered for a moment. The mother was stern looking, but soft.

And well, in the last few years, he’d become independent and wilder than he would have ever dreamed. He was careful, but he didn’t let someone else control his life anymore. 

That would be an issue, he could see that from the first day with them. 

But the father was nice, warm and liked to talk and joke with him. 

He didn’t speak to them for a while - they understood, even learned sign language to be able to communicate with him when he went mute on them. 

They put in effort he hadn’t expected. 

He appreciated it, though. 

It was enough - even though his new mother disliked him on the best of days, and his father worked overseas often, it was  _ enough.  _

He just hoped it lasted. 


End file.
